Love That Stammers, That Stutters,

All Night I Have Suffered; All Night My Flesh Has Trembled To Bring Forth Its Gift. The Sweat Of Death Is On My Forehead; But It Is Not Death, It Is Life!

The Poet Is An Untier Of Knots, And Love Without Words Is A Knot, And It Drowns.

Speech Is Our Second Possession, After The Soul-and Perhaps We Have No Other Possession In This World.

What The Soul Is To The Body, So Is The Artist To His People.

My Grief And My Smile Begin In Your Face, My Son.